Til the End of My Days
by Books In the Blood
Summary: "You know it's always been you, right John?" Sherlock asked as if it was so obvious I should have known already. "Right from the beginning" My voice cracked as my breath caught in my chest "Really?" I ask "Til the end of my days" Sherlock said softly. That's when I know I'm losing him. /When Sherlock is dying, John contemplates losing the man who means so much to him. Sad Johnlock
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock and John in their later years, told from John's 1st person point of view. Please let me know what you guys think!**

The alarm clock blared its annoying melody; I groaned audibly as I fumbled around for the snooze without even opening my eyes. The same tune every day; another day, another annoying wake up call. Getting old I thought was supposed to make it easier to rise early, but I had not found that to be true. I buried my face in the pillow, and pulled the covers over my head in an attempt to close myself off from the world. After hitting the snooze on the alarm three times, I finally decided that I could no longer hide from the world and pulled the covers off my head. I was assaulted by the bright light of the morning sun coming through my window; it was beautiful and annoying.

I sat up in bed and my muscles ached and protested the movement. My back hurt, my knees ached; I suppose that is what one gets after a life at battle. Fighting a war abroad in Afghanistan and 20 years' worth of wars here at home with Sherlock Holmes had taken a toll on my body. Though I hated it in the morning like now when everything ached, secretly I was pleased. My battle scars told of the exciting, and somewhat dangerous life I have lived.

I stretched and pulled the muscles in an attempt to get the blood flowing and my muscles working. I stood to my feet and opened the bedroom door. As I walked down the hallway I heard a familiar noise ringing from Sherlock's room. The alarm clock melody could be heard outside his door. I poked my head in his cracked door and found Sherlock face down in bed, his alarm clock ringing insistently. I smiled; I remembered days not too long ago that Sherlock couldn't be made to sleep by wild horses and now here he lay, actually sleeping through his alarm clock. I actually believed that he was beginning to sleep more than me, a sight I never thought I'd see. But then again, things were much quieter around 221B these days.

Smiling still, I closed the bedroom door and made my easy for the shower. If Sherlock still hadn't managed to get up by the time that I got out of the there I would wake him. But right now I let him sleep.

I turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower. It didn't make it easier to be awake but it kept me from falling asleep. When I finished my shower I stepped in front of the mirror, brushing my now completely grey hair; Sherlock liked to make a joke of it, that my hair had turned before his. While my brownish blonde hair was now completely gone, Sherlock still maintained some of the raven color in his locks though most of his was grey now too.

When I emerged from my shower and began to walk to the kitchen, I saw Sherlock in his armchair by the fire, looking at the morning paper, though his eyes were drowsy. "Good morning" I said pleasantly, now more awake than he.

"What's good about it?" Sherlock groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. " It's an ungodly hour" he tucked his dressing gown around him tighter and shook the paper open in front of him.

I chuckled. Sleepy Sherlock Holmes was still something I was getting used to. " Well you can't be late for your students. They'd miss your ramblings so terribly much" I jested.

"Oh, they're all idiots" Sherlock said as he surveyed the paper. "Obviously."

I chuckled "Obviously" I said, " That's why they need you"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. I knew that it had been a big change for Sherlock; he had been teaching science courses at the university now for two years but I was sure that it wasn't easy for him even still. He had made the decision to give up his case work two years ago, though he couldn't manage to give up work completely. Now he was part of the shaping of young minds; I pitied those young minds. What it must be like sitting through Sherlock ramble for an hour and half and be forced to stay in your seat; I couldn't imagine. In the beginning I felt guilty; up until that time we had been working on cases together, just as we had since the day we met. But then I'd had a heart attack, one day on a case. It was a severe one and the doctors had given me an extensive sentence of bed rest. It was during this time that Sherlock made the decision to stop his consulting work and begin teaching. At first I had felt guilty, assuming that he had made the decision based on the fact that I could no longer help him. But after a while I came to realize that Sherlock must have wanted an excuse to do this for a long time; shortly after leaving that work he had slowed down considerably himself. He'd actually become a regular sleeper though he still remained, as always, a terrible eater. Aging didn't change everything I suppose.

I made my way to the kitchen and began to make some eggs and toast. "Want anything?" I called out to him from the kitchen.

"Why would I?" Sherlock asked annoyed from the living room. Today was going to be one of his particularly charming days I could see.

I put my own food on a plate and took it to the table in the living room by the window. Though Sherlock refused anything to eat, even tea, he moved from his chair by the fire and sat at the table with me, looking at the paper. I ate mostly in silence, watching the leaves blowing down the street below; fall was quickly escaping and winter was well on its way here. Looking at my watch I noticed the time. " I need to be getting out of here" I said, gathering up my dishes and taking them to the kitchen. I entered the living room looking for my coat. I put it on as Sherlock was getting up from the table, no doubt to dress and get ready for class.

"Long day today?" he asked me as I prepared to head for the door.

"No, just a half day" I answered. Today was one of my short days at the hospital; I couldn't bear to retire completely after my illness either and I had taken up a small practice in the local hospital. I worked only part time since my health had remained fragile after my heart attack.

Sherlock gave me a small smile though it was gone as soon as I saw it in that sly and mischievous way he had about him. " See you at home for lunch then?" he asked.

"You mean the lunch that you won't eat?" I asked with a smile.

"Obviously" Sherlock said rolling his eyes and making his way to his room to get dressed as I walked out the door.

….

The office had been busy all morning and I had not had a chance for a break. It was flu season and naturally the office had been flooded with sneezing, coughing, vomiting people. It wasn't terribly taxing work but it had kept me busy.

After the last appointment of day I made my way to my office to file the paperwork that had accumulated throughout the day. I sat down at my desk and began deal with the huge pile of paper. My stomach grumbled loudly now and let me know that lunch time was quickly approaching. I could see that the paper work was not going to get done today as there was way too much for the half hour of work that I had left. I could stay over and work but today I chose not to. Sherlock only came home for lunch one day a week due to the way that his classes were scheduled and I always made time for that lunch hour with him. He never ate of course, but somehow it still became a ritual for them over the past months. I felt a smile turn on my lips.

I had been furiously typing information into the computer for about 10 minutes when there was a knock on the door of my office. "Come in" I called out.

One of my associates from the emergency side of the hospital, Michael, came in. "What's up?" I asked pleasantly, though I instantly regretted it. His face was ashen and he obviously seemed upset. He normally was a happy person, to the point of annoyance sometimes; if he looked this way then something was wrong. I felt my stomach drop, knowing deep down there would only be one reason for him to look that way at me; pity.

"You need to come to the emergency room, John" He said. "Its' Sherlock. They just brought him in."


	2. Chapter 2

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The wind was knocked out of my lungs as if I had been punched in the stomach; actually I wished that I had. It would have been less painful. My lungs were frozen in my chest for a few horrible seconds; when I finally managed to get air into them, my chest hurt.

"W-what…..happened?" I managed to stutter out. I was desperate to not become a sniveling mess in front of Michael; especially not until I had gotten all the information I possibly could.

Michael's face was a mask of pain; not his own pain but someone else's. Mine. It was the look I'd had so my face many times when I had had to deliver tragic news to someone. That face you had when you knew that what you were saying was going to change that person's life. "He collapsed" Michael said, " He was in the middle of a class and he just collapsed."

The image of Sherlock collapsing amid his brilliant ramblings was pitiful. He must really be sick for this to happen in front of all his students. I didn't understand; he had been fine this morning. Sure, he hadn't eaten or drank anything and he had overslept but those were not abnormal things, for Sherlock at least. Not now.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth before I can manage to stutter out " Do they know why yet?"

If I thought the look of sympathy on Michael's face was bad before, I didn't now. His face fell even further and a grimace crossed his continuance. " John, sit down" he said, motioning to the chair beside me.

"No, no I don't need to sit" I argued. "Just tell me" I knew what it would mean if I sat; if I sat terrible things would happen. As long as I was standing, the world couldn't end.

Michael spoke quietly. "John, really, you need to sit" he said. "The other doctors told me it would be best if I told you"

I could feel my eyes stinging, and a lump forming in my throat but I choked it down. " I can't…" I rasped out, fearful of the tone of my own voice.

Michael put a hand on my arm and gently sat me in the chair, sitting in the one across from me. "Sherlock's really sick John" he said gently. "He has been a for a while now"

This information doesn't make sense to me; Sherlock isn't sick. He's brilliant, strong, inhuman at times even. He isn't sick….he doesn't do that. "What-what do you…..what do you mean?" I stuttered out.

"It's his kidneys, they're failing" Michael said simply. He's not looking at me and I'm not looking at him. I'm staring down at my feet, surprised that they are still planted on the ground; I feel like I'm floating away. " They have been for a while."

"What….how long?" I managed to ask. "How could he not know?"

Michael looks uncomfortable. "He did know. He's known for two years now. He's been doing dialysis twice a week. He was doing fine until a few weeks ago; but then his body stopped responding to the treatment." he said.

The room around me is dissolving away; black colors the edge of my vision and I grip the arms of the chair for support. I feel like I'm going to fall out of the chair if I don't hold on. "How long?" I somehow manage to ask. I know deep down that there is no other question to ask at this point.

Michael grimaces again and that makes my stomach drop further. "A few weeks at the most" he says. "And that's assuming he stays in the hospital, which he is refusing to do."

I possibly can't breathe. A few weeks…..that's all I have. I put my hands on my head and close my eyes. This isn't happening, this isn't happening….maybe if I say it enough I will make it true. I feel a pain, sharp and deep in chest; the pain is familiar but worse this time. My weakened heart is trying to fail me….maybe I should let it.

Michael sits in silence for a long time, not pushing me by saying anything or making me say anything. I hold my hand to my chest until the pain becomes bearable; because it doesn't go away, it just becomes less severe. Finally I speak. "Can you give me a minuet?" I ask unsteadily.

Michael looks at me knowingly and nods his head. "Sure….of course." He says, "They are putting him in room 1417. Just come up when you are ready." He stands, pausing before he walks away. He places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze. "I am so sorry John"

I know his words are meant to comfort me but at the moment nothing could possibly bring me comfort. Not when the world has stopped.

Michael had only just shut the door when I lost it completely. I put my hands in my lap and weep senselessly. I cry so hard that the sobs make the pain in my heart hurt even worse. I don't even care; he's dying and that's all that matters to me. He's all that matters to me…..

I let myself do all the crying that I could possibly do; when I see Sherlock I can't possibly do this so I have to get it out now. I don't even try to wipe the tears or mucus away; I crumple off the chair into the floor in a mess, my face smeared. I lie on the floor and tuck my legs up to my chest, continuing to sob until nothing comes out anymore and it's a dry hiccupping pathetic sound that comes out of me. When my body can no longer produce any tears, I sit up and stare at the wall, wiping the mess off my face with my sleeve. My stomach and chest ache, my face is raw from the crying. I give myself plenty of time to sit and recover from my spell; I don't want Sherlock to know I've been crying.

I sit and watch the clock on the wall, slowly ticking by the seconds of this miserable life. I should be at home with Sherlock. We should be having lunch; I should be eating my lunch and listening to Sherlock rant about how his students are so dull. He should be shouting at the crappy daytime telly and insulting my intelligence for watching it. He should be sitting in front of me, well and vibrant. But instead he's in a hospital room somewhere and I'm sitting here sobbing senselessly.

Tick, tick, tick….a few weeks. The realization is positively horrible. It's so little time; I'm not prepared. For a moment it all doesn't seem real; 20 minutes ago I was sitting at my desk waiting for lunch. Now I'm sitting in the floor preparing to see Sherlock, knowing he's fading from me.

When I feel that sufficient time has passed, when my face is dry and no longer red from the crying, I pull myself up from the floor and get prepared to walk out the door. I've spent too long crying; I should be with him. There will be plenty of time for crying later….

I step out of my office and walk through the hallways to Sherlock's room. The hospital seems so loud and racing around me; but I feel as though I'm frozen. My feet walk as if in slow motion. All around me people are carrying on; doctors are working, nurses are chatting, babies being born, people dying, laughter, tears. Life, death….it's all so horrible I want to scream.

When I reach Sherlock's room I pause outside for a moment. My chest still hurts and I'm not sure it has to just do with my weak heart. I don't want to see him like this. The rock, the one that's always been strong; to see him weak is like accepting that superheroes can die. The knowledge changes the way you view the world in a horrible way.

I step into the room and see him lying there in the hospital bed. I'm glad he's not hooked to a ton of machines; rather he's just lying there as if he's just in for a bit and planning to leave soon, which I guess he probably is. Though he still looks like Sherlock, I see the pain that creases his face slightly, the way his color is even paler than normal. He's tired.

I'm standing there not sure what to say. Sherlock looks at me from his spot on the bed and I don't know what I was expecting him to say. Not what he did say.

"Oh God, they told you, didn't they?" He asks exasperated as he rolls his eyes in true Sherlock fashion.


	3. Chapter 3

**I was bored so here's another update :) Enjoy! Please review and follow!**

I'm taken aback by his response; so carefree, so nonchalant. He acts as though he's talking about them telling me what's for dinner rather than them telling me that he's dying.

"What?" I croak out. I wish I could have thought of something to say but that was the best my shattered mind could come up with.

Sherlock surveys me with a look as if I am stupid. " Those bloody doctors told you" he says. " It's obvious in the way that you are carrying yourself, the color in your face, your still slightly red eyes. They told you."

Despite the circumstances I feel slightly embarrassed that he can see through me that easily. I really didn't want him to know I had been crying about it. Though I feel in that moment that my weakness is a lot better than his callous at this whole thing. He doesn't even seem upset.

I cross the room and take a seat in the chair beside him, looking at him closer. Despite the way that he's talking I can tell by the way he lays, the color in his face, the light out of his eyes that he feels horrible. He's so pale that he could just blend in with the sheets. Somehow he seems smaller than I remember.

"Well, it's a good thing that someone told me" I say, taking pride in the fact that I can keep my voice steady. "Sherlock, honestly. Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock huffs. "I was going to tell you, I just hadn't yet" he says defensively.

"Really, when were you planning on telling me?" I ask, my tone rising slightly. I'm upset that he hid this for all this time. I could have been cherishing the time that we had left and now that I know, times almost up. It so like Sherlock, just to not tell me.

"When I needed to" Sherlock said simply, looking down at the bed and not me.

Silence hangs in the air for a minute before I speak. " Two years now…..why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

Sherlock looks up at me, neutrality in his features. "What could you have done, John? Telling you would not have prevented my illness; I would have still been sick whether you knew or not. It saved your heart a lot of trouble" he seems to understand how he worded that and adds. "You know, after the heart attack and all. I was informed of my condition shortly after you became unwell"

That's when the whole thing dawns on me. After the heart attack Sherlock decided that it would be best to put the consulting work behind him and do something easier. I always assumed it was because of me. But it wasn't; Sherlock had to stop because his health was declining. I should have seen it really; Sherlock would have never have given up the work that he loved so much if there was any other choice. He knew that I, and everyone else, would assume that it had to do with me since I couldn't do it anymore. That's what Sherlock wanted; he didn't want anyone to know that it had anything to do with him.

I angry with myself; I should have seen it. How could I live with him for past two years and not know something was wrong? I just put it all up to aging….I should have none better. Sherlock isn't a normal person; he's not like anyone else.

I hang my head. "Sherlock, there might have been something I could do" I say desperately. " We're the same blood type, maybe they could have done a transplant." I don't know where this reply comes from, but I meant it genuinely.

Sherlock smiles; a genuine, warm smile. "John that is very kind of you" he says, knowing I meant it. "But I could hardly have asked you to do that"

"You wouldn't have had to" I say simply. I'm glad at this moment that I did all my crying already because it my body had any tears left they would be threatening to come out now. If he had told me, I would have done it without a second thought.

"I know I wouldn't have" Sherlock said. "All the more reason to not tell you. John, you were very ill. Your body would not have survived that kind of operation. To even ask would have been tremendously selfish"

I know he's right and yet I still want to be angry. I want to be angry at him for not telling me. I want to be angry because he didn't allow me the chance to do anything. I want to be angry because he didn't give me time. But I can't be angry at him; I never could do that very well.

I don't know what to say; Sherlock isn't talking either. There is so much that needs to be said, and yet we aren't saying it. I know Sherlock won't bring it up and I don't want to either. I look down at my hands; the clock in this room is ticking annoyingly loud as well, telling me with each tick that time it slipping from me. Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence.

"John, let's go home" he says.

I open my mouth to argue with him; I am going to tell him that he has to stay here, that he's sick and the doctors need to take care of him. But then I look at him; so pale, so tired, and yet what I see most is sadness. Its only there for a second, and then he recovers, covering it with the mask of neutrality that he's put on so well.

"Okay, let's go" I say, standing up and looking for Sherlock's things.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, keep it coming!**

The ride back to the flat is the longest cab ride of my life. The day is a beautiful one; the sun is shining the wind has stopped blowing and the temperature has risen slightly so that it's not too cold to be outside. People are riding bikes and walking their dogs, going to work, catching a bus; life is going on. I don't know how it can.

I look over at Sherlock often, though out of the corner of my eye so as not to let him know I am watching him. He looks out the window but I see familiar look in his eyes that tells me that he isn't really watching what's out there; rather he is deep in thought and doesn't want to be disturbed. I know I'm being selfish for thinking of myself and how I'm affected at a time like this; I should be thinking of how this affects him. But I can't help it; when it's over, I'll be the one that is alone. A puzzle with a very large missing piece.

When the cab arrived back at the flat, I paid the cabbie quickly, and Sherlock actually waited for me rather than dashing quickly inside. But then again he wasn't really doing anything quickly; he was pale and drawn and he moving slowly. I wondered how long he had been feeling terrible and he covered it up for me.

When he got inside the flat, we stood frozen inside the living room for a few moments. We just stand there, frozen. The silence in the flat is deafening; I wish I could say something, but what? What could I possibly say at a time like this? I wish Sherlock would say something and break the tension. Sherlock had always been able to fill in the blanks. Right now I'm was just wishing he would tell me this is all a mistake; I'm wishing he would fix it like he always does.

Sherlock stood in front of me lost in thought; he looked down at the ground, not meeting my eyes. Even though he wouldn't look at me, I couldn't look anywhere but at him. The light from the early afternoon sun shone through windows, falling on him, It made the flecks of green in his blue eyes sparkle, the pale skin of his face glow brighter. I followed the light down the curves of his silver, shadowy curls and down to his face. He looked so young….he was young. We had only just celebrated his 55th birthday last month. He's too young to die.

Sherlock seemed to become aware I was staring at him; perhaps he was aware the whole time. He looked up at me and I was prepared for him to say something. Only he didn't; he just turned and walked toward his room without a word. I waited a few seconds before following him. When he went into his room and shut the door, I knew that that meant that he didn't want me to follow him.

I stood outside the door, not knowing where to go. I was hurt that he didn't want to be around me right now. I was not surprised, but still I was hurt. My time left with his was so short that I didn't want to waste any of it. But I didn't want to push him; so I turned and left.

The rest of the evening was almost unbearable. I couldn't do anything; my mind would not stay focused on a single thing. I turned the telly on but that was a joke; nothing could even remotely keep my attention. I went to my desk and turned my computer on, but I just ended up starting at the blank screen for a long time. I was frozen, unmoving. Nothing was important enough that it required my attention. The only thing that was important was the man behind the door that wouldn't allow me to see him.

I went to bed early, just hoping to get a small escape from the mental prison that I was in. I put my pajamas on, feeling extremely spent; every so often my heart would give me a stabbing pain, almost as if to remind me of the pain. As if I could forget.

I pulled back the sheets and lay down, turning off the lights. It seemed so dark and cold in my room. I pulled the covers as high as they could go. The sadness was pressing upon me like a weight, making my chest hurt. I tried to cry; if I could cry again maybe some of the pain would go away. But even in the darkness, when it was completely acceptable to cry and I wanted to cry, no tears would come. I suppose that I spent all the tears that I was allotted for that day.

I laid in bed for a long time trying to sleep, but sleep alluded me. I watched the small sliver of moonlight that came from window change position on the floor as it moved across the night sky. My eyes stung but they would not close to sleep. The crushing loneliness and dark cloud of depression pressed too heavily on me.

I pushed back the covers finally and got out of bed, wondering how I could move when the weight was so heavy on me. I walked down the hall and to Sherlock's bedroom. The door was still closed, but it wasn't locked. I knew that I should respect Sherlock's privacy and leave him alone; he no doubt was having strong feelings and wanted to be alone. If he needed to collapse or cry he wouldn't do it around me; I should give him time to get that out.

I put my hand on the doorknob and paused. I didn't know why I was here really; I had no idea what to say or do once I got into the room. Maybe Sherlock would even tell me to leave. Maybe he wouldn't. I just knew that I wanted to see him, talk to him; know that he was still real.

I pushed the door open and looked in. Sherlock was lying under the covers, sound asleep. The lamp beside his bed was turned on but Sherlock's face was turned away from the light and door. I walked around the bed so that I was on the side that he was facing. It was dark but I could still see most of his face from the light of the lamp. His face didn't look calm like it usually did in sleep; it was drawn and seemed pained, even in sleep. It hurt me to see him this way; he was in so much pain and I couldn't do a thing about it. I was a doctor; I should be able to save him. Or at least stop the pain; I couldn't do either.

I stood there and just watched him for a while, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. On a lonely impulse, I pulled back the covers and climbed into Sherlock's bed. I suddenly felt so much warmer; the weight on my chest didn't seem so heavy. I could instantly go to sleep here, but I didn't. I still watched Sherlock, wondering what it all meant; him leaving me. I'd been with him for so long that I didn't even remember who I am without him. He'd been my friend, college, flat mate for so long. I had spent most of my time with him for two decades now, not just as his friend but as…..? There isn't a word I can conjure in my mind what Sherlock is to me. He's part of me; already I felt the part of me that is him pulling away and leaving me with a wound so deep that it would never heal.

I reached my hand up slowly; it's almost connected to Sherlock's face when he speaks. "John, what are you doing?" he asked tiredly, his eyes still closed.

My hand froze in mid-air, stayed there for a second, and then I pulled it down as Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at me. I honestly didn't know what the hell I was doing.

I stuttered out "uh" and "um" incoherently until Sherlock says, "John, really, just go back to bed."

I felt crestfallen at the thought of going back to my dark, cold, lonely bed. I didn't want to be alone; I wanted to be with him. "Why?" squeaked out. I didn't want it to sound desperate, but it did.

"This is not something you've ever done before, why start now?" Sherlock asked calmly. He was trying to pretend that this was just a normal night; he didn't want to acknowledge what we both now knew.

"I don't want to go" I said. The tears I wanted to so desperately shed in my bedroom now wanted to spill over but I refused to let them. However, the sound of me covering them up is betrayed in my voice. It comes out small and weak. I sound so feeble and I'm ashamed of it.

Sherlock continued to be emotionless. "Just go John, please?" he asked.

He didn't plead or beg; he knew that he didn't have to. He knew that I would just do what he wanted.

I got up off the bed and walked for the door. I was about to open it when he said, "Sleep good". He didn't turn to look at me but I knew in his tone he's sorry that he's sending me away. He didn't want me to leave but he didn't want me to stay. His "sleep good" was really, "I'm sorry"

"Yeah, you too" I said before walking out the door. I made my way down the hallway and flung myself on my bed. I didn't have any trouble producing tears now.


	5. Chapter 5

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I woke the next morning and for a few glorious seconds I forgot what had happened the previous day. I heard rain pounding gently on the roof and I lay and listened to it for a while, coming out of my drowsy state. But then I felt my heart giving a stabbing pain, as if to remind me. The events of the day came rushing back to me in a blurring fashion, coming down on me like a hurricane. The force of it hit me so hard that it took my breath away. I allowed myself a few moments to lay in bed and sorrow over it; then I put a neutral mask on my face and left my room. If Sherlock wanted to act as though nothing had happened, which he obviously did, then I would do my best to play along with the act.

I went into the kitchen and began a pot of tea; Sherlock wasn't up yet. I looked vaguely at the food that was lying on the counter and thought that I probably should eat something. I hadn't eaten since yesterday at breakfast but my stomach rolled at the mere thought of food. I made a few pieces of toast and determined to force them down. I took the toast and the tea into the living room and sat down. I poured myself a cup of tea and then another one for Sherlock. I placed the cup on his side of the table and then stared at my toast vacantly. I wasn't sure why I had decided to make it because I felt like I was going to vomit.

I stared out the window for a while when I heard sound coming from Sherlock's room. A moment later he emerged, hair disheveled and eyes tired. He moved slowly to the door and picked up the paper before coming to the table. He sat down in his seat across from me and looked at the cup of tea that I had sat on his spot. He didn't seem to want it but he took a few small sips from it before opening the paper and surveying it. I was aware that I wasn't doing anything but sitting there and in an effort to look busy I began to eat my toast. It was horrendously dry and felt like cardboard in my mouth but somehow I managed to choke it down. As I finished my toast, Sherlock set the paper down on the table and put his fingers together, looking out the window. Thinking.

"What should we do today?" I asked. I was trying to make it sound normal, like a day off. Only we never just had days off, so it sounded strange.

Sherlock stared out the window. "Let's take a walk" he said distantly. I stare out the window at the rain that's pouring down; it's an odd request to me but he's not pushing me away and that's enough for me.

….

An hour later Sherlock and I were strolling along the street the street in the rain. I held the umbrella in the middle so that we were both kept as dry as possible. The weather was horrible; it was freezing cold and the rain never ceased. I was surprised that the rain was not snow; our breath came out in little puffs.

Despite the umbrella my pants and shoes were soon soaked and I was freezing. Sherlock was shivering too and I noticed alarmingly how slow he was walking. I could tell that he was in pain though he was doing a really good way of hiding it. Finally we came to the park; it was deserted in this horrible weather. We walked to a small stone bridge that crossed a small stream in the middle of the park and this is where Sherlock stopped. I stopped alongside him and we both gazed down at the water that was passing underneath us.

After a while, Sherlock spoke. " I wish this was snow" he said looking off at the rain. "I'd like to see some snow"

"I don't think it will be too long before it is snow." I said. I don't say what I'm thinking; that even though it is soon, I'm not sure he will be here when it does happen.

Sherlock starred off into sky. " I am sorry John" he said, not looking at me.

I was taken aback by this sudden apology. "What for?" I asked.

"All this" Sherlock said. "For being so deceptive"

I didn't know what to say which was okay because he carried on. "I was going to tell you. I just didn't want to bring this out until it was…..almost time. When they told me that I wasn't responding to the treatment anymore, I knew that it was time to tell you. And I really was…..I just couldn't find the words." His voice seems to crack a little at the end, almost as if emotion is getting the better of him. But he was too good for that. He recovered quickly. With a little chuckle he said, "And then I have to do something like bloody pass out in front of all those sniveling idiots. I'd love to know which one called the hospital. I'd fail him."

He chuckled but I wasn't fooled. In the subtle tone of his voice I read the embarrassment, hurt, pain, fear that he is hiding so well. No one else would ever see it, but I did. Perhaps it was from being around him so long; I like to think his powers of deduction had rubbed off a little on me. But I pretended that I didn't notice any of this; I gave him a small smile that I didn't feel and said, "Well that git deserves no less"

Sherlock smiled again, and it was a little more genuine this time. "I really hate them all anyway" he said.

I pretended that I didn't read through the lines of that one too. "Yeah I know you do." I said.

We lingered there for a long time, discussing the stupidity of the human race, before Sherlock took the lead and began to walk again. He was even slower on the way back and it alarmed me. He was shivering extensively and I was worried about him; I guess I shouldn't have been worried he would catch a cold. That was the most ridiculous ever.

When we got back to the flat I made a fire in the fireplace to warm the place up. I was shivering almost as much as Sherlock was and I was anxious to get changed. I went to my room with some reluctance; it had been nice to walk and talk with him even in the freezing cold rain. I was afraid when I came out of the bedroom I would find him locked away again, hiding from me.

I changed quickly, peeling my wet clothes off and drying quickly with a towel before putting on my warmest pajamas. I still didn't feel warm; I didn't think any amount of clothing would get rid of the chill that seemed almost constant to me since yesterday. I was drying my hair with the towel as I came back into the living room , hoping to see Sherlock there. But I didn't. I felt my heart drop, sensing that Sherlock was going to freeze me out again. Maybe that was why I still shivered despite the fact I was in dry clothes now. I noticed one of Sherlock's dressing gowns thrown over the arm of the couch; I took it and put it on myself, wrapping it tightly around myself; maybe if I squeezed tight enough I could hold myself together.

I let my head fall on my chest against the dressing gown that was on me; it smelled like Sherlock. I breathed the scent in deeply; it was a nice smell. Not a smell I could describe with any words, just that it was nice.

I noticed that Sherlock's bedroom door was cracked slightly. I knew that I was being a nuisance but I couldn't help it; I walked to the door and knocked gently. I was very surprised when he said, "Come in"

I pushed the door open to see Sherlock sitting on the floor by his bed, leaning against it. He was dressed in his own pajamas, his curls still damp upon his head. There were books, papers, files, photos strewn all around him. It took me a second to figure out exactly what he was doing; when I did, it made me sad down to my core. They were case files; the cases we had solved. He was remembering them.

"Do you need something John?" He asked, looking up at me. I could see his eyes notice his dressing gown on me and the no-doubt defeated way I was standing but he didn't say anything. He was trying to keep things as normal as possible; acknowledge the illness as little as possible.

"I was just…." I stuttered. I felt silly; I couldn't tell him I just desperately wanted to be with him all the time. "Just wanted to see if you wanted some lunch or something"

Sherlock gave me a pleasant smile. "Are you having anything?" he asked.

Of course I hadn't been thinking about lunch; the toast I'd had earlier still felt like a weight in my stomach. Sherlock knew this of course; he knew I wasn't going to eat unless he made an effort to eat too. "Maybe I'll just make some soup" I said after a while.

Sherlock smiled, pleased with himself. " Get me some too?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll be back in a moment." I said, making my way back out the door and to the kitchen. I heated up two bowls of soup; my stomach rolled at the smell of it, but I was going to make an effort if Sherlock was.

I took the soup back to Sherlock's room; I handed him the bowl, hoping that he would let me stay. "Thanks" Sherlock said as he took the soup from me. I was happy when he moved some of the files that were sitting next to him, making a spot for me. I sat down beside him and leaned against the bed. Sherlock and I took small sips of soup; neither of us wanted to eat but refused to give in lest the other one stop eating. I would notice Sherlock start to move his bowl aside and I would do the same; he'd see me out of the corner of his eye and take his bowl back. After what seemed like forever, we both finish up out lunch; I felt very queasy and sick to my stomach but at least it had succeeded in warming me up.

As we put our bowls aside, I surveyed the files that were strewn around me. I smiled when I noticed a very familiar one. It was one I had named "A study in pink" for my blog. Sherlock had always rolled his eyes at my names for our cases.

When Sherlock noticed the file I had in my hand he smiled too. " I'm not surprised you'd go for that one first" he noted.

"Well, it was the first, after all" I said.

"The first for you" Sherlock said slyly. "I had a very productive career going before you showed up"

I snickered. "Which would have been over if I hadn't showed up" I said.

"Oh , you think you're that good?" Sherlock asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, I do" I said "You were going to take that bloody pill til I showed up and saved you"

Sherlock smiled. A little innocent smile I didn't see often; one he just reserved for me. "I knew I had the right pill. There was no chance I was wrong."

"Sure" I said.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening looking over case files. We discussed the cases we had worked over the years. We laughed, we kid each other; we never talk about the matter at hand. Never once dis we discuss why we are looking at the files.

It was early night when I noticed Sherlock starting to wane; he'd be talking and stop abruptly, head drooped down, nodding off. He fought it several times, jerking his head up abruptly. But eventually he couldn't fight it anymore and his head remained slumped. It was early; Sherlock was sleeping more. I began to wonder how much time he was going to be asleep over the next days. He was losing energy; he was in pain and it was taking a lot of energy to fight it.

I tried to shake him, to get him to get up just long enough to fall back into bed, but he was out cold. I walked around so that I was in front of him and put my arms under his arms, lifting him up; he hardly weighed anything. How had I not noticed that he was losing weight? I backed him up until he was against the bed and laid him down. I pulled the covers over him and turned him so that he was lying on his side; he didn't like to sleep on his back.

I was hoping when I looked at his face that I would see his face might have been eased a little from the way that it looked last night. But when I looked at it, I didn't see that; I saw the mask of pain again. Even in his sleep he couldn't get any relief.

My loneliness and sadness came back to weighing on me without Sherlock to talk to; we weren't laughing and talking anymore and I therefor had nothing else to distract me from the thoughts of why we were here. At least I didn't want to cry this time; but I did feel that crushing depression that I had felt the night before.

I really tried to be quiet and gentle as I climbed up onto Sherlock's bed; he was passed out so it shouldn't have been hard, I mused. But the slight sound and movement that the bed made from me getting onto it was enough to make him stir. "Don't John" he said, eyes still closed. "We talked about this last night"

I wasn't surprised that he said this, but still it stung. I couldn't understand how he could bear to be alone at a time like this especially at night. The thought of it was oppressive to me. It was obvious that he didn't need me as much as I needed him. Feeling wounded and embarrassed at showing him how weak I was, I climbed out of bed and left his room. This time he didn't say anything and either did I.

My room was too dark and sad and I couldn't bear the thought of going there. So instead I laid down on the couch and turned the telly on. I didn't watch it; I just had to have something that was making sound and noise to keep the darkness from completely closing in on me. I stared blankly at the telly screen until my eyes burned. I shut them tightly and tried to sleep. It was a long battle to get to sleep; I pulled the dressing gown tightly around me and held on to the one thing I had of Sherlock. I pulled it towards my face and took a small consolation in Sherlock's scent. My heart was hurting, stabbing deeply; I really just wished that it would give out on me.


	6. Chapter 6

The week that follows is much of the same. Sherlock and I spend most of the days looking through case files and discussing the cases that have been our life for years and avoiding the conversation that needs to be said. Every night I tried to climb into bed with him, but he never let me stay.

But every day Sherlock declines in very noticeable ways; he sleeps longer, goes to bed earlier, stops eating. He moves slower and pain is more distinguishable on his face. Every day it hurts a little more to see him. My heart begins to hurt more until there is an almost constant stabbing pain in my chest. Sherlock is fading away from me slowly and I feel myself fading as well. Wherever he is going, that's where I want to go.

I try to help him, but he won't let me; no matter how much pain he is in he insists on doing everything by himself. He's doing everything that he can to pretend that everything is normal and its infuriating. Because he isn't okay. On day five after finding out about his illness, I find him throwing up in the bathroom; he can't stop for what seems like forever. On day six, he passes out on his way to the bathroom. On day seven, he never gets out of bed. He sleeps all day; I spend much of the day sitting in a chair by his bed, just watching him. There is no color in his face at all and he seems gaunt even more so than a week ago. His breath is labored and he doesn't stir. That was the day that I became really scared.

On day eight, I wake up to snow. My bedroom is filled with white light so that when I open my eyes it seems incredibly bright. The whiteness stings my forever raw eyes. I was filled with a complete sadness as I crossed the room, pulling back the curtains and see a thick blanket of snow on the ground. I think of Sherlock's words from a week ago "I'd like to see some snow"

The snow finally came and I feared that he was too sick to see it.

I was staring out the window at the big flakes that were falling down on Baker Street when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around and saw Sherlock standing in my doorway. He looked absolutely horrible; his paleness was offset with a greenish sickly color, he was breathing heavy and he was hunched over as if he could barely stand. He was in so much pain that he couldn't even hide it from me.

"Sherlock, need something?" I asked, standing up and walking over to him.

Of all things, he smiled at me. "It's snowing" he said. "Let's go for a walk"

True to his stubbornness of the rest of the week, he didn't allow me to help him get dressed; it took him about ten times longer than it should. When we were both finally dressed and ready, we depart 221B. When we stepped out of the door and onto the side walk, Sherlock looked up and stared at the sky. The snow was truly, amazingly beautiful. It fell down from the sky like diamonds, slowly drifting down to us. As Sherlock looked up at the sky, he began to laugh. He closed his eyes and let the snow fall on him, touching his face and getting lost in his hair. I couldn't help but smile at him; it was almost like things were normal for a second.

Sherlock opened his eyes and put his hands out in front of him, catching snowflakes. I don't know how long he stood like that, just admiring the snow. It was a long time and I enjoyed every second of it immensely. After a while, Sherlock begins to walk and I follow him.

We walk to the park, to the same bridge that we walked to a week ago in the rain. It takes us three times as long on this trip than it did the first time. Sherlock had to stop several times and catch his breath; I felt like suggesting we go back but I don't. If this is what he wanted to be doing I would do anything to make sure it happened.

Finally we reached the small stone bridge that was now covered in snow. The water that had been freely flowing under us then is now solid ice. I leaned against the bridge and look over at him; he was still gazing at the snow that was falling down, a smile on his face.

"Beautiful isn't it?" I asked, holding my own hand out and catching a snowflake, watching it melt in my hand.

Sherlock nods. He is so pale that he could blend in with the snow, " I'm glad I got to see it, one last time" he said.

He said it so nonchalantly, so care freely. There isn't any sadness in his voice at all. It's like he almost doesn't understand what he is saying. That he is saying he will never see snow again. Because he will be gone.

The weight of everything that this means to me comes crashing down on me like a brick wall. Most likely in a few days he would be gone and I would be alone .The stabbing in my chest became almost unbearable; I could feel tears pooling in my eyes as my lip began to quiver. I tried as hard as I could to hold the tears in; I promised that I would not cry in front of him. But I found that I simply couldn't stop; part of me was being pulled away and it was leaving me with a huge hole in my chest.

The tears began to spill over my eyelids and fall down my face. My sobs were soundless, but they shook my body. Once I started, I couldn't stop; I was in so much pain. I put my hands on my face as if I could cover the fact that I was crying. Even if I could cover the sound of my muffled sniffling, I still couldn't fool Sherlock.

He allowed me a few minutes of crying before he intruded upon me. "John, please don't do this. Not right now. Please" he said.

I wiped my face with my hand and sniffled, looking at him. But I couldn't stop; he was leaving me. Damn this universe and the forces that were pulling him from me; I hated them all. It shouldn't be possible to feel this much pain and still be alive; I just wanted to die too. Why couldn't this world at least be that merciful that it could at least let me die?

"I wish it was me" I manage to sob out. I looked down at our feet, where snow was beginning to settle. I do wish it was me; it would be so much easier that way. Sherlock would morn my death, sure, but he would manage to go on. I don't think I can.

I hang my head and sob. I cried until the tears began to roll down my face, down to my chin and drip off. I was surprised when Sherlock reached over, put his hand to my face and wiped off my tears. His hand was so warm; it reminded me he was still here. I looked up at him in surprise. His eyes are filled with emotion, though I couldn't read what yet.

"I don't" Sherlock said softly. He looked at me and I could tell that he genuinely meant it. He didn't want to go through what I was; but he didn't understand. "Please stop crying"

"I can't" I wail shamelessly. "Don't you understand? You….. I feel like I'm pulling away on the inside. My heart, my soul, is ripping away inside me and it's unbearable! You'd do so much better if I was the one dying"

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked. It sounded almost angry, as if my assumption that I care more hurt him. "Why do you think it'd be easier for me?"

"Because you would be able to move on eventually" I said, choking on my own tears. "Eventually you'd get past it, get over it and I can't….because…." I take in a shaky breath, my lungs stinging from the cold air and the pain in my chest. "Because I…."

Somehow Sherlock knew what I was going to say; of course he did, he's Sherlock and that's what he does. Before I can say it, Sherlock takes my face in hands and looks at me. I see so many things in that face hat I've never seen before. His face is intense, with pain, emotion. His eyes actually have tears in them and I can tell he's struggling to keep them inside. He grips my face tightly and I put my hands on his wrists. "Don't, John don't say it, please" he begs me.

"Why?" I asked. It was so quiet it was almost a whisper, just a breath.

"You're making it too hard on me John" Sherlock said, desperation in his voice. " I can't take it"

"I'm sorry" I stumble out, holding back my tears and determining to be strong for him. His words were so few and yet I was able to read everything in them that he wanted me to. It is hard for him; maybe just as hard for him as it is for me. My breakdown was making it harder for him to stay strong. He had pushed me away and ignored the situation this long so that he could try to forget about the pain. It was hard enough to accept that we were being separated. If I said those three little words, even just once, it would become real and if it was real neither of us could stand it. The pain of our loss was already too much; we couldn't stand to lose anymore. But I wanted to say them so terribly bad; for him to know I felt them, had always felt them. But selfishly, I wanted to know that he felt it too; I wanted to hear him tell me. I knew deep down that he felt it, but I wanted to hear it. Just this once.


	7. Chapter 7

**Grab a blankie or teddy now; excessive feels ahead!**

Sherlock was reluctant to come home and so was I. I didn't want to face the emptiness of the flat; somehow I felt that if Sherlock came back home, he would never again leave it.

I pulled it together after my episode in the park and manage to dry up my tears. Maybe it was because I knew that Sherlock needed me to be stronger, that he admitted it to me. As we walked back to the flat, Sherlock is evidently declining; he leans heavily on me, walking slowly and stumbling often. He is pale to the point of being grey and his eyes droop as if he can hardly stay awake.

I somehow managed to get him up the stairs and to his room. When he sits back on the bed it is obvious that he is already asleep. He laid back on the sheets, his hair falling around his head like a halo; for once I see that peace in sleep that I have been looking for since he became sick. Its then I fear he won't wake up again.

I got his pajamas out of the drawer and proceeded to change him out of his clothes into the pajamas. I pulled his shirt off, reviling his ivory skin that clearly shows his ribs. I ran my hand gently over them and considered the pain that Sherlock must have suffered this past two years. He had always been skinny but never like this; this was the body of a dying man. Torn between wanting to keep my hands on him and the desire to stop seeing the pain that was reflected in his body, I was froze for a minute. Finally I decided to pull myself away from seeing the pain and I pulled the pajama shirt over his head gently and down over his gaunt figure.

I paused at removing his pants; somehow it felt wrong, like a violation. I really wished he would wake up and lecture me about privacy or minding my own business. But he doesn't. I change his pants quickly, not lingering like I did with his shirt. All of this is wrong; I shouldn't be seeing him like this.

Once Sherlock was dressed, I moved his body so that his head was on the pillow. I pulled the covers up to his shoulders, tucking them in slightly so that he wouldn't be cold. I don't know how long I stood there, just staring at him. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, desperately afraid that every time it came down, it would not come back up. Suddenly, my heart gives me such a pain that I fall down to my knees on the floor; my chest stabs and burns. I could hardly breathe; I held my chest, waiting for the pain to surpass. When it doesn't go away for some time, I was thinking this might just be what I had been hoping for; maybe my heart would give out on me so I didn't have to suffer for a second in a world that didn't include Sherlock Holmes.

But after a few minutes the pain subsides and I realized that I was going to be okay. My stomach gave a lurch and I just made it to bathroom in time to thrown up violently. I clung to the toilet, alternating between vomiting and crying for I don't know how long. I stay there until my body and soul are completely raw and empty.

I picked myself up off the bathroom floor and drug myself to my bedroom, changing my clothes quickly. I fell face first onto my bed after changing into my pajamas. I didn't cry anymore, for I had left all my tears in the bathroom. But I lay on my bed for a long time, clutching my blanket in my hand until my knuckles turned white. I knew I needed to return to Sherlock, but I was afraid. I was afraid I would go to him and I would find that the gentle rise and fall of his chest had ceased; I really wanted to just stop existing.

I was laying there, hanging on desperately to my blanket and staring out the window at the snow that was falling when I heard a noise by the door. I turned around and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway. I could tell that he could hardly stand; he was shaking slightly as he stood there and his color was sickly.

"Sherlock, you are you okay?" I ask even though that's a supremely stupid question. "Do you need anything?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything; he walks slowly into the room, walking around my bed to the other side. I turned over so that I could see what he was doing; I watched as he half climbed, half stumbled into my bed. He lay on the other side of the bed, pulling the covers onto him. I was taken by surprise as he scooted over so that he was next to me. He laid his head on my shoulder, draping an arm over my chest. I closed my eyes for a second as that part of me that was Sherlock pulled further away from the part of me that was John. As persistent as I had been about trying to stay with Sherlock during the nights and how he'd been equally persistent about not allowing me, I knew that if he was willingly coming to my bed, openly looking for comfort, that it was almost over. He knew that it was close enough to the end that he could show his weakness. The realization is almost too hard for me; but I remain strong for him. There will be plenty of time to cry later. After.

I want to enjoy every second of these last moments that I have with him. I lay on my back with Sherlock's head on my shoulder and his arm over my chest. I put one arm around his back and the other around him, pulling him closer to me. He feels so warm and soft against me and I felt warmth spreading through my chest. I tilt my head down so that my face is lying in his silver and midnight curls. I take in his smell and feel the softness of the curls against my face. I try to resist the urge, but this is no time for pretenses; I nuzzle my face against his curls. I wait for Sherlock to stop me but he doesn't; I don't think I'm imagining it when I hear him sigh.

I could stay like that forever; and I do stay like that for a great amount of time. I only lift my head when Sherlock speaks. "John?" he says. His voice croaks out weakly; there is pain and sadness filling his tone.

"What Sherlock?" I asked.

"About what you said…..earlier" he said slowly and hesitantly. He pauses to see if I understand what he means.

"Yes" I said, letting him know I know exactly what he is referring to.

"You know it's always been you, right John?" Sherlock asked as if it was so obvious I should have known already. "Right from the beginning"

My voice cracked as my breath caught in my chest "Really?" I ask

"Til the end of my days" Sherlock said softly. That's when I know I'm losing him.

In the same moment I feel rising happiness and crushing sadness. To know he returned my feelings, to know that the man I've spent 20 years with, following him, taking care of him, loving him…to know he returned the things I felt for him was a gift I could have never expected to receive. That combined with the knowledge that he is leaving me is so crushing I don't know what to say. So I don't say anything.

Sherlock tilts his head so that he's looking at me. Maybe he wants me to say something, maybe he just wants to see me, I don't know. But I can't speak…..as much as I wanted to tell him how I felt earlier I can't manage to speak after he just told me. If I speak I might lose it again and I don't want to do that, I don't want to ruin this. So as he looks up at me, my a slight smile on his lips and an open look of adoration that he has never let me see, I lean down and put my lips to his. He doesn't initiate it, but he doesn't stop it either. His lips are soft and warm against mine and they fit more perfectly than I could have imagined. True, I never did imagine it before; no other circumstances could have brought us to this.

After some time ( I'm not sure how much because time has become meaningless to me) I pull back and look at his face. I'm afraid he will say something but he doesn't. He just looks into my eyes with his icy cool ones and smiles at me. It seems so strange to smile at a time like this, but with him smiling at me I can't help but return it. I smile even though my heart is breaking.

The second time, Sherlock is the one that initiates. He leans forward and puts his lips against mine; a little harder, a little more desperate. When I feel the tears on his cheek up against mine I pretend that I don't.

When he pulls back he lays his head back on the place on my chest that he was at before. After a few minutes I know that he is asleep because of his stillness and breathing. I don't sleep, not for a long time. I just watch him, taking in all of his features, memorizing him. I want to be able to remember everything about him; not like a photograph but the better form of him. The one I have known; no one else got to see him like I did and that's the version I want to remember.

I watch him for hours maybe, I don't know. When my eyelids begin to droop I fight it with a passion. I don't want to sleep; I want to stay with him. I don't want to leave. But eventually my body gives into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

I knew it the second that I woke up; it felt different in the room. I felt Sherlock laying on me but he was heavier, colder. I felt the lump in my throat that grew immediately and the stabbing in my heart. I didn't want to look but I couldn't do anything else. I shook his arm and called his name incessantly, but he didn't rouse. I knew he wouldn't.

"Sherlock….Sherlock!" I cried out into the emptiness as I shook his limp body. The tears were openly rolling down my cheeks now. My voice was hardly distinguishable.

I shook him as hard as I could. "Sherlock! You have to wake up, you have to!" I demanded, my voice shaking. "You can't be dead! You just can't…..I need you"

I hoped that he could hear me wherever he was; that he could hear me from the pit of death and that my voice and my desperation for him would be enough to pull him from there. But it isn't; he still remains unmoving and still.

I pulled him up to me so my face was against his and I cried. I cried until my whole body hurt. That part of me that was him is gone now completely and it had left me with a huge hole; how it could be possible to hurt this much and not die was a mystery to me. Nobody should ever have to suffer as much as I was in that moment.

I pull back from him and study him; his face is peaceful and the one thing that I'm thankful for is the fact that he died in his sleep. It must have been peaceful for him and I couldn't be more thankful for that. I put my hand to his face and ran my fingers along his cheek. I put my forehead against his. "Sherlock, how am I supposed to live without you?" I moaned. "Why didn't you take me with you?"

….

It's not easy to live as part of a person. Endless pain and emptiness plague you until that is all there is. Everything is meaningless; I give up my job at the hospital because I simply can't manage to leave the flat. I can't eat, I can't get decent enough to go out in public; I stay in all the time in my pajamas and Sherlock's dressing gown. The only time I leave is late at night when I go to Sherlock's grave. I go there often, though I don't know why. He's not really there and it always makes me feel worse, but I still go.

My heart pain continues to get worse all the time, making me weaker and weaker. I sleep more and more of the day. I can't sleep my bedroom, and I haven't since he left. Every time I go to his bed, curl up in the dressing gown and go to sleep, drinking in his scent that gets fainter and fainter every day. The day that I couldn't smell it all anymore, I cried.

I don't know how long he's been gone; time doesn't mean anything anymore. One day I think about going to his grave but I can't; my heart hurts so badly and I'm too weak to go anywhere. I drag myself to the indent in Sherlock's bed where I spend so much time. I flop down on the bed as my pain becomes worse. It's like someone is stabbing my heart with a knife and I just wish it would stop. It goes on and on; it's the worst pain I've ever felt. Much worse than when I actually had a heart attack. I feel my body wanting to tear its self away from the pain. It goes on for a long time before, eventually it stops. I'm so relieved that it stops; I open my eyes and all I can see is light around me.

I was confused because it doesn't make sense; it had just been night right? Who the hell knows anymore; I've lost all sense of time. I don't even know if it's been a week, month or year since Sherlock's death. How would I know if it was night or day?

But then I see _him_…..Sherlock is standing a few feet in front of me, smiling and vibrant. How can it be? Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm mad; I don't really care if it means I get to see him. I feel myself shake at the sight of him….I've missed him so much.

"Sherlock…..?" I manage to stutter out. My voice is so scratchy and raw from lack of use "you're here?"

He smiles at me "Of course I am. Where did you expect me to be?" he asks.

"You're dead…." I say, sorrow crushing me. "You died and you left me"

Sherlock smiles and then tisks at me. "Dear Dr. Watson, you didn't really think I'd leave you forever?" he asks.

He holds out a hand, beckoning me to come to him. Instead, I run at him and throw my arms around him, burying my face in his chest. I feel whole and complete; and for once, in a great long while, my heart doesn't hurt.

**Well, that's the end guys. Please dont kill me :) they were together again in the end as it should be **


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